I slowly regained consciousness, momentarily surprised to find myself face-down on the cold cement floor.
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I slowly regained consciousness, momentarily surprised to find myself face-down on the cold cement floor.
It took several moments for me to shake the fog and try to get my bearings. I pushed myself up by my briar-knit hands, noticing the faint glow of torchlight shining illuminating the woven plant matter from not one, but several different directions above me.
“Welcome back to the world of the living, love,” a gruff voice called out.
A thick glob of dried blood had formed on my lip. I picked at it with my tongue briefly before my flesh knit itself back together, popping the scab off and sending it fluttering down to the floor below. “Thanks,” I muttered, my voice hoarse.
Sharp pain radiated from my temple. I reached up and touched it gingerly, noting that instead of pale flesh, I felt a small stone that had somehow found itself embedded in my head. I casually picked at it once or twice, but gave up after it showed no signs of peeling off like the crusted blood had. “What the hell is this thing,” I asked the voice.
A second one answered, “Think of it as our own little snare.”
“Snare?” I rose to my knees, my vision still blurred from what transpired moments (minutes? Hours? Days?) ago. I looked down at my hands, my arms, and waved them around in the air. My movements felt just a little bit sluggish, as if I had been drugged. Which was impossible, of course. My biology made it impossible to poison me with any known substance. “I'm not sure that's the word you should be using. I seem to be moving just fine.”
I rose to my feet, and the man with the gruff voice approached me, the dull light of his torch giving his rough features definition in the darkness that surrounded us. A malicious grin slowly formed on his heavily scarred face, the unnerving gap between his stained front teeth visible in the fiery glow of the light.
“Not a snare in the traditional sense, Freebird. One far more magical in nature.” The man turned his head and spat out a glob of dark tobacco juice out, a couple flecks catching in his unkempt, bushy mustache.
I simply stood there. “Enlighten me, then.”
The owner of the second voice drew closer, and looked remarkably unremarkable. A trimmed beard, lighter in color than his comrade's, and long hair pulled back in a ponytail. “You're a smart, educated woman. Do you know what a lobotomy is?”
“Yes, of course,” I promptly say, having performed a few in my time as the Master of Getting Things Done for Lichensith Ulroke and his silly little Crimson Hands.
“Think of this snare as a temporary version of the procedure,” the second man continued. “The stone taps into the brainwaves of whoever it's embedded in, shutting down certain impulses while leaving them otherwise able to function as normal.”
“That explains why I haven't killed you two yet,” I managed to mutter after several seconds of trying to process his brief description. I raised my hand to the left side of my face and drew my finger across the stone again. The tip of my finger danced along the edge of the implant, for lack of a better word. The two strangers watched me with mirth written on their faces as I picked at it a couple times. I pictured myself tearing it out and immediately butchering these two guys in a shower of acid and vines.
And then I suddenly lost interest and allowed my hand to fall back down to my side.
The first man's grin grew until it was ear from ear. “Those who fall victim to the snare find themselves incredibly lethargic, which makes them pretty easy to deal with.”
“Except for the transportation part,” the second man said under his breath.
“It's an expensive device, to be sure.” The first raised his grimy, blood-stained hand and lightly brushed my cheek with it. I did not flinch, I did not pull away, I did not react in any way.
“But when it came to bagging you, Freebird, it was absolutely worth every last piece of silver.”
-~-~-~-~-
Several days passed as the three of us traveled in silence (at least on my part) towards our destination. I did not ask them anything about the bounty that was apparently on my head. I felt only the quickest flickers of curiosity about their contract, actually. As far as I was aware, there weren't any outstanding bounties floating around that had my name and hastily-sketched profile all over them. Aurelianus would have told me as much, and we would've taken sufficiently violent steps to get them annulled.
I traveled with the two bounty hunters as we grabbed a merchant ship out of Tirel, sailing east across the vast sea. The ride was relatively smooth, if not a bit on the chilly side. Even though they had inconvenienced me greatly by jamming this rock into the side of my skull, they did give me some warm furs to travel in.
I wasn't stupid; I know it was part of their cover so they wouldn't raise suspicion at the customs office. But I appreciated it nonetheless.
We were at sea for about a week before the sailor in the crow's nest caught sight of land. Having been given free reign to move about the ship by the bounty hunters (who knew with absolute certainty that I would not go anywhere or do anything stupid thanks to their snare), I moved towards the bow of the ship to see what was ahead.
The salty mist from the ocean stung my eyes as I squinted, trying to make out what the lookout had seen. I stood there for roughly fifteen minutes before a pale blob of gray appeared on the horizon. I continued to watch the island approach, standing perfectly still and silent as the wind lashed my bangs across my face. I paid them no mind, even after they began to sting with each new burst of wind.
Slowly, over the next few hours, the lumpy landmass began to form itself into a more definitive shape. What were dull curves drew themselves higher and sharper, turning into towering, snow-covered spires of a mountain range. This sheer wall of rock widened and widened as we drew closer. I could start to make out waves crashing upon the jagged shores as the boat began to veer to the north.
A small, nagging feeling began to form in my gut. Something is not right here. I should be angry. I should be terrified. I should be killing everyone on this ship and getting the hell away from here. But, for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why.
I scratched at the rock implanted in my temple for a moment before letting my hand fall to my side.
Another hour or so past as we rounded the northern edge of the island. I contemplated returning to the two bounty hunters who captured me and asking where they were taking me, but that feeling quickly melted away as well.
The dozen or so people who booked travel on the vessel back in Tirel began to emerge from below the deck, wrapped up in furs and towing their bags behind them. Among them were my two captors, who glanced briefly in my direction to make sure I hadn't defied their magical snare and escaped. I nodded in their direction before turning my attention back towards the island.
I had a feeling I had been here before, but I'm not sure under what circumstances. Was this another side effect of the rock's magic? A shitty memory of horrible times gone by at this place?
We slowly pulled into a mostly-empty port. Out of the twenty or so docks, only two were occupied. Nobody was working the cargo on them. In fact, there weren't many people visible at all. Just a few poor souls out in the cold, grabbing onto the ropes that the ship's crew had tossed down to them and securing us to the posts at our sides.
The first hunter drew up beside me, pulling my fur-covered hood over my head. It was very big and loose, hiding my face rather well in addition to keeping the breeze out. “Can't be too careful,” he said softly. “We don't need any of the locals recognizing you and killing you before we can get our money.”
Makes perfect sense, I thought to myself.
I followed the two bounty hunters down the gangplank and onto the pier. We passed by several of the other passengers and dock hands without saying a word as we shuffled towards the shore. The wind off the ocean was beginning to pick up, rattling windows and storefront signs, blowing some of the freshly-fallen snow that had collected on the sidewalks around as we passed through.
And yet... The feeling that I should be running, that I should be fighting is steadily growing. And I cannot do anything about it--nor do I care to at all.
The feeling lingers that I know this place, but I do not recognize it at all. It looks as if a great battle had taken place here. Flecks of dried blood remain on the stonework of the buildings that are still standing. The streets are lined with those who had been long since rendered homeless. This was a place of desolation, of destruction, of utter hopelessness.
A young child passes in front of us, a ragged cough escaping his lips and he runs into the waiting arms of his mother. She eyeballs the three us for only a brief moment before she turns her attention back to her sick little boy.
After several minutes, one of the city guard wearing a patchy, torn uniform with faded colors that I do not immediately recognize runs up behind us, shouting for us to stop.
My captors exchange knowing glances before they turn towards the guard, all smiles. I am compelled to do the same.
“Is there something I can help you with, sir?” the first hunter asks the guard, his frozen breath hanging in the chilly air.